Simpatico's Gift

by Frank Martorana

  During the silence that followed, Aubrey wandered to the bookcase where Kent stashed the bundles of twenties and found the Styrofoam mailer.

  “What’s up with this thing, anyway?” she asked.

  “That’s a medical mailer.”

  “So.”

  “It has a Cynthiana postmark. Another odd coincidence isn’t it? Figurante being from there and all.”

  “What would Figurante be mailing Burton?”

  Kent let her question hang.

  Finally he said, “Ed Holmes told me Kentucky is the only state in the U.S. that has the VanMark strain of EVA.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Kent sat alone in Elizabeth’s office, waiting. The pain in his arm had subsided to a constant ache, and by twisting sideways and draping it over the back of his chair, he could just about make it bearable. Earlier, Emily and Maria had changed the bandage. Twenty-four hours post-attack and the lacerations were healing as expected — his entire forearm was now a revolting purple and yellow bruise under glistening skin, stretched tight. The swelling went from his palm to his elbow. To occupy the time, he wiggled his fingers, then squeezed them into a loose fist. It was an excruciating exercise, but it reassured him that, eventually, his hand would be functional again.

  He had tried twice earlier that morning to broach the subject of Hector Figurante with Maria. Both times she had gone silent, quaking like a rabbit. The second time she actually walked out on him. Again.

  He hoped the plan he was about to propose to Elizabeth was not half-assed plan number three, but without Maria’s input, all he had to go on was Elizabeth’s back issues of several Thoroughbred industry trade journals and some newspaper clippings. Aubrey had dropped them off at Pine Holt, and Kent had spent a good part of the morning poring over them.

  In general, the articles confirmed what Elizabeth had said. The periodicals were nothing but complimentary; Hector Figurante was the nouveau star in the Thoroughbred world. A new thinker, a future force in the business. They mentioned his Ecuadorian background, his highly successful coffee business, and that he was forty-six and never married. There was a quote by Figurante about the need for new blood in the horse breeders as well as the horses, and how he approached the selection of his sires using modern science rather than by traditional whims. There were several pictures of him posing around his farm, Criadero del Jugador. Kent noted that he had thinning black hair, brown eyes, sienna skin, and dazzling white teeth.

  In one, he was next to a sale-record-setting yearling. In another, he was gazing out across his training track. And in a third, he was smiling proudly in front of a glass cupboard filled with trophies, plaques, and ribbons. There was a photo taken at Churchill Downs showing Figurante in the winner’s circle holding the bridle of a horse blanketed in roses.

  Kent noticed that in several pictures Figurante carried a black cane with what looked like a gold horse head for a handle. He wondered for a moment if the man carried it more for style or intimidation. Then he thought, maybe he just has a bad leg. Kent was raising a daughter with a crippling birth defect. He could have a soft spot for a guy with a bad leg.

  The newspaper clippings were not so gracious. They homed in on Figurante’s sinister side; investigated, but never indicted, on drug charges. Possibly linked to the South American cartels. Convicted and fined substantially for import and tax improprieties. And currently embroiled in a lawsuit with the United States Department of Agriculture over coffee importation, and, not surprising, one with the Kentucky Bureau of Livestock Sanitation that claimed Figurante circumvented laws for importing horses.

  “Morning, Elizabeth,” Kent greeted the matriarch as she pushed through the barn-side entrance to her office.

  “Sorry I’m late, Kent. I’ve been helping with the paperwork in the breeding shed. We’re running a little behind this morning.”

  “No problem.”

  “I take it you had a chance to look over the stuff I sent you.”

  “Yes, I did. And I’ve got to say, Figurante is definitely a question mark. Plenty of dark shadows. Maybe he’s a killer, I don’t know. No motive, though.”

  Elizabeth gestured at his arm and made sour face. “You paid quite a price for your little foray.”

  Kent brought his arm down into his lap. “I think it was worth it.”

  Elizabeth looked a little skeptical.

  “I think we should follow up on Figurante. I’d like to go down to Cynthiana and meet him myself.” He paused, waiting for a reaction and was disappointed when Elizabeth revealed nothing. “What I thought we could do is have you contact him with a story about how you are looking to buy a stallion — maybe to replace Simpatico, whatever. Then, at some point after you’ve supposedly reviewed video tapes, pedigrees, progeny records, and that other preliminary stuff, you’d like to send your veterinarian down to look over the prospects. That’s totally plausible, happens all the time in the horse world.”

  “I think we could make it believable,” Elizabeth said, each word measured.

  “I’d have a better feel for the guy if I met him face-to-face. Plus, I might be able to find out if he and Burton are connected, and if he has a motive for killing our horses.”

  After batting around details, they settled on Kent’s scheme, whereby Elizabeth would make the initial contact under the pretense of wanting to buy a stallion, and request information on prospects. After a brief time for review, Kent would be sent down to examine them on her behalf.

  As Kent drove back to Pine Holt, the feeling that they were in too deep swept over him again. He looked at his bandaged arm. If simply entering Burton’s apartment could result in an injury like that, what would happen when he entered the realm of Hector Figurante?

  CHAPTER 28

  The Ford Taurus Kent rented at the airport had thirty-five thousand on the odometer — hard, stop-and-go miles, no doubt. Its brakes were mushy, and it negotiated turns like a ship in heavy seas. The radio carried a background hum of engine interference that crescendoed and decrescendoed as Kent worked the accelerator. He leaned over, flipped on the air, and ignored the cigarette smell it emitted. None of it mattered. All he cared about was getting to Hector Figurante’s place.

  He thought about how Aubrey and the girls had balked at the idea of him meeting someone as questionable as Figurante on his turf without any back-up. Finally, they had agreed to let him go, but he was under strict orders to be extra careful, and to call them on a regular basis.

  The road between Lexington and Cynthiana wound through a mix of depression-era Kentucky towns with worn brick buildings, their countless coats of paint blistering in the midday heat, and elegant antebellum homes, some remaining on their vast estates, others diminished by progressive taxes or highway construction.

  Along routes 75 and 62, there were dusty little farm houses floating in seas of corn and tobacco. A few had a handful of scrawny white-faced beef cattle basking behind tangles of barbed wire, or pigs in pens cobbled up between rusting trucks. And, of course, there were majestic horse farms with crisp, clean buildings and endless miles of white board fence rolling over Kentucky bluegrass.

  The first thought that struck Kent as he approached the gate to Criadero del Jugador was that the farm did not fit with the rest of the Kentucky motif. There was no sense of history. From Kent’s windshield vantage point, Hector Figurante’s farm had an air of abruptness, as if it had just appeared, a garish display of opulence. The stone archway of the gate was impressive in its massiveness, yet all subtlety was lost in its construction of pink granite and mirrored silver lettering that shouted the farm’s name.

  The house was a jumble of architectural styles. A slate, mansard roof spanned like a hat between two stylized Queen Anne turrets that jutted skyward from the north and south ends like huge ears. The windows, which were more or less contemporary, and a tongue of stairs spilling from the entrance, combined to give th
e place the look of a giant clown, laughing at his own gaudiness.

  Since there was not a car in sight, Kent wheeled the Taurus to a stop close to the front door on the circular driveway. He climbed the stairs and struck a heavy iron doorknocker. The door swung open instantly, and Kent saw before him Hector Figurante. He was wearing a loose print shirt and cream trousers. His black hair, brushed straight back, contrasted with the whiteness of his smile. He was leaning on his cane. Now, seeing it up close, Kent saw its thin, straight shaft had a carved snake coiling up like a corkscrew. At the top, where the snake’s head should have been, was a gold horse head for a handle. Kent wondered if the snake-horse beast had some Incan relevance. Figurante would be keen on that, coming from Ecuador.

  “Ah, Dr. Stephenson, I presume,” Figurante said, then laughed at his own joke. His speech was precise, without the slightest accent. He extended a hand, soft, no calluses of a horseman. “Sorry, it just popped out. I’m Hector Figurante, and it pleases me immensely to meet the head of the CVC.” He waved his cane. “Come in.”

  Kent tugged at the front of his shirt. “It does feel like I’ve been in the jungle.”

  “Right. Right. I’m delighted you could come down for Mrs. St. Pierre. I’ve always been impressed with Elizabeth, but this time she has outdone herself. The renowned Kent Stephenson leaves the CVC to do her bidding.”

  “We’re close friends.”

  “Yes. You must tell me about that. But first, let’s get you settled in, and then something to drink. I’m dry myself.” He lifted a small bell from a nearby table and gave it a shake. In response, a fair-skinned, young woman in a summery floral dress appeared. She had auburn hair and deep blue eyes. Judging from her Irish features, Kent would have bet her name was Mary O’Something.

  When Figurante touched his hand to her shoulder, she responded with a slight crouch, like a pup expecting to be disciplined.

  “Renee Reilly, this is Dr. Kent Stephenson. He is here to evaluate a horse or two for Elizabeth St. Pierre. Kent, Renee. Renee is my farm manager.”

  Kent nodded hello. She smiled weakly, eyes downcast.

  “Renee will help you with your things. I’ll meet you in the solarium in — say — twenty minutes.” He turned and walked away using the cane to support his left leg, which dragged slightly.

  He really did have a bad leg, Kent thought, and was immediately disappointed. Not because of any sentiment for Figurante, but because it would be harder to dislike a person with a limp.

  “If you can show me some shade where I can park this clunker, we can leave most of my stuff right in the car,” Kent said to Renee, as they walked toward the Taurus.

  She pointed to a pull-off under an enormous oak. “How about over there? You can pull it around to the barns later, when we check the horses.”

  “Perfect,” Kent said, as he hoisted his suitcase from the back seat. “We can leave the vet equipment in the trunk for now.”

  Renee seemed cordial enough, polite and accommodating, but Kent sensed a subtle evasiveness. He wasn’t sure if it was her quietness, or her reluctance to hold eye contact.

  “How long have you been at Criadero del Jugador?” he asked.

  “Four months.”

  “Oh. So not that long then,” Kent said. “Where’d you get your training?”

  “Mostly here.”

  He considered asking her why a farm manager would be so fresh groomed and clad in a sundress in the middle of the day. He pictured what Aubrey would be wearing at that moment — boots, dusty jeans, and a tank top clinging with sweat.

  “I’m eager to see the horses,” he said.

  “We’ve got the most handsome boys in Kentucky. Which ones are you interested in?”

  “Several, but mainly the four-year old, Snow Din. Mrs. St. Pierre likes his breeding, out of Snow Crane, and his race record. If he’s healthy and the price is right, he’s our boy.”

  “Good choice. He’s as good as they get. Probably the best horse ever sired at Criadero del Jugador.”

  Renee showed Kent to a huge, overly-appointed guest room and departed. Standing alone, he pondered Renee’s last comment, and then let it pass.

  A few minutes later, when Kent entered the solarium, he was surprised to see that he was first, and had the room to himself. He moved to a massive wall of windows, and took his time admiring the spectacular view of the south fork of the Licking River. Then he crossed the tile floor to a wicker chair nestled in a cluster of exotic-looking plants, and sat. He drew a paper from his pocket and reviewed a summary of information about several horses Elizabeth was supposedly interested in buying.

  “That’s what I thought,” he whispered to himself after studying the sheet. Renee had been wrong when she said that Snow Din was sired at Criadero del Jugador — Figurante bought him as a yearling. The horse was not born on the farm.

  Kent leaned back and rolled that information around in his head. She may have just misspoken, he supposed, but any farm manager he had ever worked with knew the breeding of every horse on the place, backward and forward. It was part and parcel of the job.

  He was pulled from his thoughts when Figurante entered the room.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Figurante made a sweeping gesture with his cane. “Duty called. I trust you are feeling better.”

  “Much.”

  “Good. Renee will be here in a minute with some iced tea. I have something stronger if you’d like.”

  “No. Tea is fine.”

  Figurante lowered himself into the adjacent chair. “So, VinChaRo is in hopes of further bolstering its position in the Thoroughbred world, eh?”

  “Looks like it,” Kent said. “I’m sure you heard about Simpatico.”

  “Everyone in the business did. A terrible loss. He was a magnificent animal. And still no cause of death, I understand.”

  “That’s right. We’re going to miss him. He was a major contributor to the New York Program.”

  “Sometimes these things have a way of working out for the best. Maybe introducing some new stallions will strengthen your program even further. What do they call it? Hybrid vigor?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The New York Program actually began about the time I started here at Criadero del Jugador, you know. Over the years I’ve watched it grow into one of the better programs in the U.S. But I’ve got to tell you, Kentucky is still the world capital for Thoroughbreds. Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of good horses in New York. Fine horses. But, it speaks for itself when people like Elizabeth St. Pierre, on top in the business, come to Kentucky looking for stock to improve their own.”

  “We’re gaining on you all the time.”

  Figurante puffed a short laugh through his nose. “Let’s say we are all moving ahead. I doubt the gap is closing much.”

  Arrogant bastard, Kent thought, even as he held a smile.

  Renee entered with a tray of iced tea, complete with mint leaves — southern style — and some tiny sandwiches. She accepted their thanks, turned and quietly slipped out of the room.

  “You are originally from Ecuador, right?” Kent asked Figurante.

  “Yes, I grew up in the Andes. Quito. My family has a plantation over along the coast. I come from a long line of coffee growers.” He chuckled. “No Juan Valdez jokes, please.”

  “You could have fooled me. No accent, I mean.”

  Figurante smiled, and gave Kent a slight nod. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I had the good fortune to be one of the 10 percent of Ecuadorians of white European ancestry. Most of my schooling was at English-speaking prep schools, then Colorado State.”

  “When I first moved here with my business, I could barely get anyone in the horse industry to talk to me. When they heard I was in the coffee business, from South America, they expected me to wear a sombrero and serape. They figured me to be a stall mucker.” Figurante’s voi
ce became as empty as his face. “But they acknowledge me now. Every one of those pompous asses knows who Hector Figurante is. They come to me for horses, and pay what I ask.”

  Kent watched the real Figurante moving behind those dark eyes, knuckles clamped tight around his cane.

  “They complain about my business practices, but they respect me — maybe even fear me. The old school Kentucky breeders have seen me rise to become one of the biggest farms in less than ten years. Can you imagine how that irks them when their ancestors took generations to build what they flaunt as their own great achievements? They have tried to discredit me. I’m sure you’ve heard rumors. They are all lies. And those who try to take away my dream?” He jabbed the floor with his cane. “I make them suffer.”

  Figurante downed the rest of his tea, dousing the flames. He set his glass on the table with theatrical flare, and smiled broadly at Kent, signaling that it was all a jest. Kent knew it was no jest.

  “Tell me about yourself,” Figurante said, more calmly. “I get the feeling that you are more than just a veterinarian doing a job for a client.”

  “As I mentioned before, Elizabeth St. Pierre and I are close friends.”

  “I meant your involvement with the New York Program.”

  Kent stared at the rivulets of condensation trickling down his glass. “I don’t own any horses myself. That is, not race horses. My daughter has a couple of riding horses. That’s all. But I’m a staunch supporter of the Program and very much involved in it from the veterinary standpoint. Like you, I’ve seen it grow from some politician’s brainstorm to a major role in the Thoroughbred world.”